There was one submarine, however, which, so the story ran, was always welcomed somewhat differently. It seems that months before the war started, USS Skipjack (SS 184) had submitted a requisition for some expendable material essential to the health and comfort of the crew. What followed was, to the seagoing Navy, a perfect example of how to drive good men mad unnecessarily. For almost a year later Skipjack received her requisition back, stamped “Cancelled — cannot identify material.” Whereupon Jim Coe, skipper of the Skipjack, let loose with a blast which delighted everybody except those attached to the supply department of the Navy Yard, Mare Island, California.
This is what he wrote:
USS SKIPJACK
SSI84/L8/SS36-1
June 11, 1942
From: The Commanding Officer.
To: Supply Officer, Navy Yard, Mare Island, California.
Via: Commmander Submarines, Southwest Pacific.
Subject: Toilet Paper.
Reference: (a)(4608) USS HOLLAND (5184) USS SKIPJACK
(b)SO NYMI cancelled invoice No. 272836.
Enclosure: (A)Copy of cancelled invoice.
(B)Sample of material requested.
1. This vessel submitted a requisition for 150 rolls of toilet paper on July 30, 1941, to USS HOLLAND. The material was ordered by HOLLAND from the Supply Officer, Navy Yard, Mare Island, for delivery to USS SKIPJACK.
2. The Supply Officer, Navy Yard, Mare Island, on November 26, 1941, cancelled Mare Island invoice No. 272836 with the stamped notation “Cancelled — cannot identify.” This cancelled invoice was received by SKIPJACK on June 10, 1942.
3. During the 11¼ months elapsing from the time of ordering the toilet paper and the present date, the SKIPJACK personnel, despite their best efforts to await delivery of subject material, have been unable to wait on numerous occasions, and the situation is now quite acute, especially during depth charge attack by the “back-stabbers.”
4. Enclosure (B) is a sample of the desired material provided for the information of the Supply Officer, Navy Yard, Mare Island. The Commanding Officer, USS SKIPJACK cannot help but wonder what is being used in Mare Island in place of this unidentifiable material, once well known to this command.
5. SKIPJACK personnel during this period have become accustomed to the use of “ersatz”, i.e., the vast amount of incoming non-essential paper work, and in so doing feel that the wish of the Bureau of Ships for reduction of paper work is being complied with, thus effectively killing two birds with one stone.
6. It is believed by this command that the stamped notation “cannot identify” was possibly an error, and that this is simply a case of shortage of strategic war material, the SKIPJACK probably being low on the priority list.
7. In order to cooperate in our war effort at a small local sacrifice, the SKIPJACK desires no further action to be taken until the end of current war, which has created a situation aptly described as “war is hell.”
J. W. COE
It is to be noted that Jim Coe was wrong in one particular — it had been only ten and a quarter months. But his letter, carrying in it all the fervor and indignation of a man who has received a mortal hurt, achieved tremendous fame.
We also heard that it had achieved rather remarkable results back in Mare Island, although this was mostly hearsay. But one result was extremely noticeable indeed: whenever Skipjack returned from patrol, no matter where she happened to put in, she received no fruit, no vegetables, and no ice cream. Instead, she invariably received her own outstandingly distinctive tribute — cartons and cartons of toilet paper.
Jim Coe, a most successful submarine commander and humorist to boot, is no longer with us. After three patrols in command of Skipjack, he returned to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to place the new submarine Cisco in commission. On September, 19, 1943, Cisco departed from Darwin, Australia, on her first war patrol, and was never heard from again.
Our orders said, “Refit at Midway,” which didn’t please us particularly since the only things of interest on Midway were gooney birds and whisky, the former of which became very boring after an hour or two. That evening at the Gooneyville Tavern I met Don Horsman, who had been repair officer during the overhaul of the month before. Don had been trying his best to get into a submarine on patrol, and I was glad to see that he had finally broken away from the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard.
We had much to talk about — mutual friends; his cute family of three little girls; and the performance of various items of equipment in Trigger which we had worried over together. In the midst of the conversation a thought struck me.
“Don,” I said, “what’s the dope on the Dorado? She should be due in Pearl any day now, shouldn’t she? We heard from Penrod that his wife christened the ship, and that his father was also there when she was launched. That was several months ago.”
The grin faded from Don’s moonlike face, and he put his drink down. “She’s down, Ned,” he said.
It didn’t hit me at first. “Down where?” I asked naïvely. “Didn’t they send her straight to Pearl?”
“I mean — down — gone. Penrod never even got to the Panama Canal. One of our own planes claims to have sunk a German submarine at the time and place where she was supposed to have been.”
I pressed Horsman for more details, and the noise and confusion of the first day back from patrol faded from consciousness. But that was all Don had heard.
10
Archerfish
Some of the stories of World War II can never be fully told. Some will live only in the hearts of men who took part in them, who will carry their secrets silently to their graves. Some stories will not be told at all, because the only men who could tell them lie at the bottom of the sea. And some are part of our naval heritage, and will go down in history with stories of Old Ironsides, Thomas Truxton and his Constellation, John Paul Jones and Bon Homme Richard, Enterprise, and many others.
Such a story is the story of Archerfish, the ship which broke the heart of the Japanese Navy.
The keel was laid for USS Archerfish in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, on January 22, 1943. Exactly one year later she sank her first ship. And on November 28, 1944—but let’s start at the beginning.
The story really begins in 1939 in Yokosuka, Japan. The Japanese Naval Ministry was holding secret sessions. The probability of becoming involved in the European war was growing greater and greater; the probability of then finding their nation pitted against the United States was almost a certainty. How, then, to assure Japan of a telling superiority? How to fight that great American sea power in the Pacific? And how to do away with the London Naval Treaty, which limited Japan to an ignominious three fifths of the war vessels allowed the United States?
There was only one answer. The treaty already had been violated — tear it up. Start building in earnest for the war they know is coming.